A Fierce Allegiance v2
by keelan august
Summary: Still a space opera, but better conceived with an actual end in sight. For old fans: this version is much similar to the original but hopefully a bit smoother reading in terms of continuity and characterization.  For new fans: enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: The Degenerate**

Sartre's was filled with the usual amalgam of City denizens: legalized harlots in full-body erotisuits, designed to entice and intoxicate not only by sight but by pheromone-enhancers as well; holo bookies, their visors pulled low and their fingers grimy with black market sim-sweat, making their prints on clients' comcards virtually untraceable; First tier aristos pretending to slum but protected by unobtrusive catmen, those synthesized trained assassins who sometimes hired themselves out as bodyguards to the highest bidder.

Catmen always made his shoulders twitch. Although he had once toyed with the idea of joining their elite forces, he was a bit repulsed by the idea of some hack neurist playing with his 'trodes – he certainly couldn't afford the higher-end medics. And he certainly didn't want a body-shop sleaze wreaking havoc with his internals. So the catman synth idea had been a no-go.

Still, their glowing golden eyes and lithe grace never failed to fascinate him.

The assassins, in turn, gave him wide berth. Maybe they recognized one of their kind – if not in body, then in spirit. Or perhaps they all believed the oft-whispered but never verified legend that made out the blond smuggler to be some sort of heroic savior to a local pride in a fiasco several years back. Whatever the case, Mitsu R'Ikeda often walked into clubs such as these unmolested - protected by a tacit agreement of noninterference he shared with the City's most respected, if not feared, inhabitants.

_Would be nice if they did interfere every once in a while, though. Heroism is such a bitch sometimes_, Mitsu grimaced inwardly as he checked his chrono for the fifth time in half as many minutes.

Dealing with Benito was always a chore, but loaded with the kind of contraband he had at the moment, and with Guardians crawling all over the City more than usual, Mitsu was beginning to regret his choice of contractor.

"Drek. Drek. More drek. And…what the hell? This one isn't even a terabyte!"

Mitsu bit back an exasperated sigh and glanced around the room, noting the location of conspicuous lobsterbacks. _Two at three o'clock, one at seven and – oh, precious! A cadre of them blocking the exit. Lucky, lucky me_! He returned his attention to the contractor who was still pawing at the goods. "Benito, mi amico, can we speed this up?"

"Nervous much, R'Ikeda?" the slovenly Drego hitched his reptilian shoulder in mock concern. "Maybe you should be – selling me defects like these."

"You calling me a gyp?"

"Relax, amico. All I'm saying is that if these feeds aren't cleared and holo-ed as per agreement, then you're gonna have one helluva time explaining it to our red-coated friends over there, aren't you?"

The slithery chuckle made Mitsu's left hand twitch for the blaster he'd had to surrender at the door. _A nice hole in the center of the bastard's forehead would have been an improvement. Perhaps a pretty scar instead?_ Mitsu was actually thinking of following through with the thought, mentally cataloguing what he had on his person that could make a deep enough gash through the Drego's protective scales, when the image of Gunner's fist hammering into his solar plexus cut the fantasy short. So he held onto what little patience he had left, keeping in mind the creds and the crew's outrage if he didn't complete the transaction. "They're holo-ed, no worries. Ran them past customs myself this morning."

"Then what's the rush? My client's paying for prime goods and I don't want to waste his time or his creds on second-rate crap. I mean, look at this! It's not even 'trode-ready!"

"Hey, don't go aggro on the ferryman! I just pick 'em up and hand 'em over. You got a problem, take it up with QC."

"Maybe I will, maybe I will. Mind if I sample…?"

"Hai, hai. Whatever. Just hayaku it, ne? I've got places to be."

Mitsu watched the contractor head for the Feeder, jaw clenched in irritation. Why the Drego couldn't just 'trode in and try out the merchandise then and there was another example of how ponderous working with him always ended up being. Still, for all his coarse and slow ways, Benito was one of the few people who never asked question, often paid fairly and punctually, and never minded meeting wherever and whenever Mitsu chose. Sometimes this meant the dead of night, in the middle of an acid shower, huddled in a sewer duct; Benito was not particular as long as the job was completed. It was his accommodating way of doing business that made Mitsu able to stomach Benito's overly cautious and meticulously detailed prepayment inventories.

_Ah, frag it! I'm gonna be here a while, might as well grab a toke. Don' think Gunner'll begrudge me that much; he's getting a third of the cut for doing not much of nothing, after all._

The smuggler stood up and headed for the stim room, discounting the sudden niggling in the base of his skull that warned him from doing exactly that. Mitsu knew he needed to complete the transaction a.s.a.p. and bivouac with his crew before Benito got it in his head to rat them out for the questionable goods, but he had always been prone to ignoring his instincts while still managing to succeed in his various ventures.

Now, some would say that Mitsu's instincts got him into hot water more than it got him out – that his fame as one of the most successful smugglers in the known cosmos was due more to his crew than to his enviable, albeit sporadic, good luck – and so his frequent disinclination to follow up on his inner voice of reason was actually a good thing. But they would, of course, not say anything of the sort to his face.

Not if they didn't want a hole in the side of their heads. 

Mitsu grinned and adopted a cocky gait as he wended his way through the milieu. As he passed by the holo tables, he dared to wink wickedly at Charybdis, the menacing catman who was the undisputed Shah of the pride. It was this familiarity that perpetuated the rumors of Bushido between the two.

The assassin blinked back, his only acknowledgement, but there was wry humor conveyed in that blink. As Mitsu moved past him, he discovered the reason for Char's mood. The usually stoic catman was currently in the employ of one Senator Sabat, an infamously hedonistic Eurasian who spent much of his hard-earned bribes the old-fashioned way: gambling and drinking into oblivion. A shnockered client, especially an aristo, was an easy client - no fights to break up - and catmen were able to enjoy a certain laxity in their guard. Mitsu gave Char a covert thumbs up in congratulations and moved on.

He carefully avoided the bar. Besides all the tempting new beverages Hypno was sure to have concocted, there were the bar rats to consider. Mitsu had had assignations with most of them, and he was in no mood to play eye tag right now. He did spot a luscious victim, alone and ripe for the taking, two stools down, but he hated redheads, especially synth ones.

_To the stim rooms for two clicks and I'm outta here_, he promised himself.

From behind the two-way mirrored glass, she watched him conclude his business and walk straight for her cubbyhole. Either he had been tipped off to her presence or he was still oblivious and it was just entirely too smoky in the place for him to realize that the booth was taken. At his double take upon seeing the blinking red light that signaled the cubby's occupancy, she figured it was the latter.

She felt his hesitation and did a quick mental inventory of herself. Nothing was out of place as far as she remembered so she put on her brightest, most fatuous smile and settled into the couch in what she hoped was a convincingly casual pose. She keyed the controls to "view-all", allowing the man visible access to the private cubby's interior. Then she beckoned with her head for him to enter. He seemed to shrug then palmed the shield.

An instant blast of noise and alc stench assailed her then the shield was back in place, ensconcing the two strangers in a bubble of intimacy and stim smoke. Wordlessly, she offered him a stick but he declined with a quirk of his mouth and produced a cartridge of his own. She reached forward with a light, which he did accept, then both leaned back in their respective couches to inhale. They shared the conspiratorial smile of fellow stim addicts.

Mitsu took advantage of the dim lighting to scrutinize the woman. And this was definitely a woman, not some doped-up adolescent aristo out looking for her first lay and definitely not some bar rat desperate for a quick fix. If Mitsu hadn't just upgraded his wetware or if he hadn't plugged in the enhanced scanner he'd lifted from Cain, he would have had her pegged as a very expensive synth clone planted by Sartre to lure customers in. But that wasn't Sartre's style - he had customers aplenty. Plus, this woman did not have the glassy, vidscreen sheen on her eyes that even the most advanced technology could not eradicate from clones even now. She did have that plastic smile on her face, though. That, coupled with a sense of wrongness about her, both alarmed and intrigued him. Mitsu decided to probe, but with caution.

"Ha'llai," he began, two fingers to his temple in the official galactic gesture of greeting.

"We're past formalities, signore, since you've agreed to share my cubby," she replied coolly, her eyes appraising him sharply but the empty smile still on her face.

"In that case, let's drop the 'signore'. It's Mitsu."

"He'la, Mitsu. Getting in a fix before blast off?"

Instantly on the alert, never forgetting the lobsterbacks outside, Mitsu belatedly remembered the cargo pilot badge he had swiped from Cain during their last gambling excursion and had whimsically pinned on his left breast pocket. He relaxed then, took a deep drag and just smiled enigmatically.

"It's not mine, really..."

"I know."

"I was holding it for --- how'd you know?" Mitsu's muscles clenched in readiness. If this was a sting…

"Real pilots wear their pins on the right. I know. I've dated more than my share."

The woman dragged red-clawed fingers through her long black hair and pouted suggestively. It was a calculated move to disarm him and Mitsu recognized it as such. Still, his curiousity was unsatisfied and the itch at the base of his skull hadn't reached red alert status yet. He pressed on.

"Haven't seen you here before. You a bookie?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Dunno. That bulge in your left breast pocket? Looks like an Atropos comlink."

The woman lost her languid pose for a nanosecond, her pupils striating in surprise. She recovered almost instantaneously, though, crossing long legs encased in body-hugging plasticine and shifting sensually on the couch. Regardless of all her casual posturing, however, Mitsu did notice that she had managed to mask her left shoulder in the shadows.

"You must be mistaken. How would someone like me have access to hardware like that?"

"Anything can be had in the City if you just know where to look."

"Indeed."

In the haze, Mitsu could have sworn that her grin had turned cold and cruel. Curiouser and curiouser. Mitsu's eyes narrowed fractionally. The woman was proving to be quite the enigma. She knew about pilots and had an air of caution and alertness about her that even her artful nonchalance could not mask. And she kept her hair long, past her waist, so definitely not an aristo. Not a bookie, huh? A runner, then? But Mitsu could've sworn he knew everyone in the Guild. And who could miss a knockout like this one? No, definitely not a runner. Flyer gone rogue? Some aristo's cast-off demimondaine fishing for a new keeper?

From this angle, the smuggler couldn't tell if she was 'troded or not. It would have given him some sense of security if he had that information. It wasn't as if trust came cheaply anymore, especially not in the City, but orgamechs usually had their own honor code and weren't liable to play Pilate on each other. Mitsu thought longingly for his blaster as the woman continued to watch him. The itch was becoming uncomfortable.

"So, Mitsu," she growled low in her throat, "do you like what you see?"

"You're avoiding the subject."

"I didn't know we were on a subject worth pursuing."

"It's customary to exchange creds upon first contact."

"I don't need to be reminded of galactic etiquette."

"Then use it." Mitsu crushed his stim out in one of the canisters provided and glared at the woman who struggled to maintain poise at his sudden change of mood.

Now that he'd grown accustomed to the dark and the smoke, he was able to observe her more closely and he realized that the wrongness of her was potentially more dangerous than he'd previously considered. It wasn't just the indifferent act she was putting on, the one that kept slipping at every inquiry as to her identity. There was something else. Something not quite right. Mitsu's hackles rose and he stood up to leave.

"Listen, lady," Mitsu held up a hand as she attempted to stop him with an alarmed hand. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm not in the mood. Thanks for the booth and the eye candy, though." He let his gaze travel up and down her body insolently.

The woman gritted her teeth at the obvious dismissal. She took another drag from the stim stick, vacuous smile intact although fraying at the edges, and tried another tack. "What's wrong? Am I setting the legendary Mitsu R'Ikeda on edge?"

The smuggler's internal alarm system hit overdrive. She knew who he was, had probably known all along. She was toying with him. And at the moment of his dawning realization, her smile widened. There was no trace of fatuousness now; it was purely predatory. Mitsu was familiar with that smile. He had practiced it himself many times when confronting particularly recalcitrant clients. Anger spiraled through him like a juiced 'trode.

"Who sent you?" He asked through gritted teeth.

"Ah, that is the million credit question, isn't it?"

"I'll ask again nicely. And I don't do nice the third time around. Who sent you?"

The woman did not flinch at his vicious tone. In fact, she actually sunk deeper into the couch and closed her eyes in apparent unconcern. The smirk still laced her lips and she raised her hand to enjoy her stim stick once more. "Tetchy, aren't we?"

"And about to get tetchier!"

Before she could blink, the woman found her ashed-out stick smoldering on the couch not inches from her thigh and an enraged smuggler clutching at her biceps, looming over her like the wrath of god. Wild violet eyes, glinting with golden 'trode static, bored into hers. For the first time since the mission began, she began to doubt the wisdom of those who had sent her to procure the target.

"Now, one last time: who sent you? Who are you? What do you want from me?" Mitsu punctuated each question with a ferocious shake.

She refused to be cowed. Damn de Medici! He didn't need this bastard! She didn't care who he was affiliated with. As far as she could tell, the target was a has-been, a reject model, a jacked-up techie who maybe was once one of the elite but now looked like he'd been dragged through places even her utility droid would disdain. This beast – this _orgamech_! – should be shot for laying a hand on her! She'd had it. Enough was enough. Game over.

With a move that could have proved lethal had she not been under strict orders, the woman bucked on the couch, throwing Mitsu off balance, then raised her legs and clamped them tight around his neck. She took great satisfaction in watching his face turn blue. It wasn't until his grip on her arms loosened reluctantly that she relinquished her hold on his windpipe as well.

Mitsu fell to his knees, clutching at his neck and wheezing. _That bitch! That motherlovin' bitch nearly killed me! What the - ?_

His eyes traveled from the tips of her boots up to her glowering face. She towered over him like an avenging Amazon, her gaze hot with kindled anger. Then, scornfully, deliberately, she palmed her left shoulder with her right hand and the holo dissipated. Mitsu paled.

_Shit._

Adieu to the long, black hair. Good-bye to the sultry, come-hither eyes. Sayonara to the titillating plasticine bodysuit. In their place was a commanding figure with a shock of close-cropped red hair, icy green eyes and a painfully familiar uniform.

_Shit, shit, shit._

"Get up, Mitsuru Ikeda. It's time to go home."

If Mitsu entertained any doubts about the woman's intentions, her use of his true name dispelled them. As she hauled him none too gently on his feet and slapped a pair of magnetic binders on his wrists, the smuggler flicked his blond ponytail behind his shoulder and snarled.

"Lady, I'm gonna enjoy tearing that pretty little head of yours from your spine."

The woman had the audacity to laugh in his face scornfully. "I'd like to see you try."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: The Crew**

_Brzzt…_

[Avalon, the last megalopolis on Gaia to survive the Collapse, is comprised of three levels, which explains not only its architecture but its socio-economic hierarchy as well.

"Who's got the bones, then?"

"Bratling!"

"Be nice. I got 'em right here."

"So roll already."

"Four. Rhys."

"Yeah."

_brzztt…kkrrrikkkk…_

[First tier is, understandably, at the top and located 5,000 meters from sea level. It is an intricate web of aerial highways twining through towering spires that sway slightly in the harsh winds of that altitude. Housed in these glass and plasticrene Valhallas are the members of the First Families: founders, leaders and controllers of Avalon. They are the last of the purestrain Empaths and these self-styled glitterati make the policies, administer justice and act as beneficent guardians of all. They are also known as aristos.

"Seven, thank god. Here, Liam."

"Nine. Not on me today! Kazuhiro?"

"Very funny. Give them to Brek. I'm sure he'd like a try."

"Sure, I'm game. Ha! Twelve! Beat that!"

"It's not that kind of game, Brek."

"Smartass. You roll, then."

"I don't think that's such a good idea…"

"Urusai, kisama! Gimme those bones, Brek!"

_brzzt…kkkrrik…_

[Cloaked in a sterile world and in a blind belief of their own importance, most First tiers – or Firsters – do not realize that the almost feudal society they have erected is causing discontent and dissension among those below. History is forever doomed to repeat itself because people never take the time to learn. First tier's Enclave Advocate is Giancarlo de Medici.

"Kazuhiro, the tally still on?"

"As far as I know."

"And what he just said – that's pretty damned impolite, isn't it?"

"Our mother would wash his mouth out with soap if she could, Buddha bless her."

"Then we're at thirty and counting."

[Second tier is located exactly 500 meters beneath First tier's last bastion. Not as pristine or as manicured as its neighbors above, Second tier is nevertheless privy to certain amenities due to the service it provides. It is the heart of Avalon because this is where the Academy resides.

_brzzt…krrrk…_

"Are we playing here or just jawing?"

"Roll, Kazuya!"

"Yabai! Three."

"MWAHAHAHAHAHA!"

[During the immediate years succeeding the Collapse, martial law was the only chance for survival. Many Firsters commissioned talented – if not purestrain – individuals to protect them from mutants and, as the case always is during times of upheaval, from each other.

"Seven. To the left. That's you, Kazuya."

[The Academy was created by the First Families to be a training center for their private armies. Eventually, as stability was regained and a truce among the Families was forged, the Academy's function evolved into one less militaristic.

"Three. Drink, Kazuya."

[Today, it boasts 150 guilds. Students can specialize in myriad disciplines, from archeology to neuro-enhancement. In the Academy, democracy is encouraged and tier prejudice is not tolerated. However, it is still extremely difficult for Third Tiers to enter its hallowed halls. One has to be petitioned by an aristo to get in. That, or procure certain favors for the proper people. Nuada D'Argent is the Academy president and Second tier's Enclave Advocate.

"Three. Drink, Kazuya."

[Third tier is located at sea level and some of it is actually underwater. This gives Third tier a distinctly memorable aroma. It is made up of the remnants of eras past and therefore has the look of an old woman trying on new finery.

_brrtt…zrrt…kkrrch…_

[Flashing neoware and old-fashioned paper billboards vie for tourist attention. Concrete buildings are outfitted with the latest tech screens but still retain old-world plumbing. It is just as likely to hitch a ride on an automobile as it is to hop on a hover.

"Three. Drink..."

"Shimatta! I know, already!"

[Third tier is more commonly known as the City.

_krrkkk…zzshh…_

[Third tier denizens are as diverse and contradictory as their surroundings. One can rub elbows with fallen aristos as well as cutthroat pirates in the same bar. That dashing young buck could perhaps be a slave runner in disguise.

"Heyla, three! Gods, Kazuya, it's you again."

[There are many stories ripe for the plucking in the City but they will remain untold because the City prides itself in its anonymity. Here, one can hide from a cuckolded husband, the law, or one's past with none the wiser.

"Three. Sorry, Kazuya. You gotta drink."

"K'so! Lemme see the dice. They're the loaded ones, aren't they?'

[Anything can be had in the City: a new plaything, a new deviancy, a new life. It's all there…for a price.

"Does it matter? I rolled a three. That means take the shot, aho!"

"Who you callin' aho, baka yaro?""

[And, even though they are scorned and condemned by the upper echelons…

"Oh, no, there he goes. Watch the drinks, gentlemen. His swings go wild after four shots."

"Can't you stop him, Hiro? He's _your_ brother."

[…City dwellers savor the irony of the slumming aristos or the wide-eyed Second tiers who grace their pot-holed asphalt streets every single night.

"Ah, he's young. A couple knocks on the noggin won't kill him. Makes him humble, in fact. 'Sides, maybe it'll sober him up."

"You're an evil, evil man, Kazuhiro."

"Whoops. Watch your glass, Brek!"

[Third tier has its own brand of justice.

"Argh! Make him stop bleeding!"

"Dammit, Kazuya! That's my favorite shirt!"

"Hiro, do something!"

"Why?"

"Why not? You're his brother."

"So we've established."

"You're also the damned medic. Isn't there some sort of caduceus code or something you have to uphold?"

"Ah, you _would_ have to go there. Fine. C'mere, sib. Lemme look at that…"

"Hands off, yaro!"

"Thirty-one now."

"I'm so gonna be a rich man at the end of the day."

[Therefore, its Enclave Advocate is Loki Swift, Thieves Guild master.

_chrrrr…zrttt…krrkkk…kkrrkkk…_

[end of History sequence

Gunner Lao pulled the 'trodes from his port and closed his eyes. Although the datastream had been amusing in its florid exposition and lapses into editorializing, it was more information than he had planned to upload. But once he'd started the sequence, it proved too absorbing to stop. Granted, the static on a second generation 'stream wasn't all that pleasant, and concentrating was even less pleasant when surrounded by hooligans with nothing to do. Still, it had been a good history reminder, and any information was good to have, especially in these uncertain times.

Gunner was about to attempt to access the Papal datastream, which would require more attention on his part since security at that level was crazy scary, when his 'trode was savagely pulled from his port by one of the brawling crewmen who flailed past him, tried to catch his balance, overcompensated, and went tumbling ass over end, arm snagging the wire that connected Gunner to the console. The man let out a yelp, more startled than hurt, and was immediately surrounded by a concerned pack.

"Hey, you okay, Gunn?"

"Oh, man. Gomen. I didn't mean…"

"Dammit, Rhys, don't throw down if you can't control yourself."

"_You_ pushed _me_!"

"Well, if Kazuya hadn't started…"

"Gunner, man, you alright? Want I should take a look at your port?"

"Oi!"

The outraged yowl effectively ended the solicitous yammering. From his semi-prone position on the floor, Kazuya Hasukawa glared at the men, obviously the worst for wear after the good-natured scuffle. A purpling bruise was already blossoming on his left cheek and his right eye was puffing shut. He angrily swiped at the trickle of blood from a cut lip, brushed aside his older brother's half-hearted attempt to dab at his scrapes, and shook his shock of red hair from his eyes.

"I'm bleeding here, you sadsacks, and all Gunner's gone and done is get himself unplugged. Remind me not to save your asses the next time lobsterbacks get on our tail."

"Peace, otouto," Kazuhiro Hasukawa hauled his brother to his feet not ungently and gave him a slap on the back. "No harm, no foul, ne?"

"Easy for you to say," Kazuya spat out a tooth in disgust and swayed slightly from the aftereffects of the thrashing and six consecutive shots of questionable sake.

"Yeah, no kidding. It's gonna cost creds to get all this blood out of my shirt," Rhys complained loudly, which earned him derisive hoots from the others and a middle finger from the bleeder himself.

"You pansy!" Liam mocked, shoving Rhys's shoulder.

"Shut up, one-eye!"

"My one eye can out drink, out run, out fight and pretty much outdo anything you and your two aristo eyes can even begin to think of, boke!"

The name calling and posturing took on the cadence of a well-worn argument, signaling an end to any further fisticuffs. Gunner grunted as the men righted overturned chairs, swept broken glass surreptitiously under the table with scuffed boots, and generally got everything back in order. It was a testament either to Mitsu's leadership or Gunner's own presence as second-in-command that the crew of the smuggler ship _Moirai_ needed no further disciplining than what they imposed upon themselves. Still, for all their self-marshaling ways, Gunner was silently thankful that the hour was late – or early, depending on whose perspective it was – and that the bar was relatively empty of any curious onlookers who may have taken note of their ruckus. They were in the City, sure, but it just wouldn't do for smugglers to keep anything else but a low profile if they wanted to remain unfettered and unencumbered by the taxmen, let alone the local law.

He was about to resume 'streaming, deftly reaffixing his electrode to the base of his skull, when Gunner felt an insistent tug on his sleeve. He peered down and met Trout's silent, frowning gaze. The two stared at each other for long, trenchant moments before Gunner surrendered. He leaned back and barked over his shoulder,

"Oi, Kazuya!"

"Hai?"

"Your young un needs something."

"She's not mine!"

"Whatever. Deal with it, okay?"

Kazuya rolled his eyes and limped over to the two with obvious reluctance. But when he finally got down on his haunches, hands on his knees, to meet her at eye level, his expression was sincerely gentle. "Oi, bozu, what's the matter?"

The eight-year-old kept silent – no surprise as she hadn't spoken a word since the crew had acquired her a year ago – but her scowl remained intact. She tried the stare down but Kazuya was impervious, which had made him the de facto guardian of the little girl, much to the youth's chagrin.

"You hungry?"

Trout blinked.

"Gotta pee?"

Trout's eyes narrowed.

"You tired?"

The indentation between Trout's brows grew more pronounced as she managed to glower with even more ferocity than before, if that was even possible. Kazuya could have sworn that the girl knew thirty different ways to communicate with her eyebrows alone, and somehow, through some gods bedamned fate, Kazuya was the only one able to decipher her grimaces. But athough he made a big stink about the whole thing, if he was truly honest with himself he'd admit that he was secretly pleased to be the only one in the crew Trout deigned to connect with.

Now, though, Kazuya just wasn't in the mood to play decoder to her mystery moods. Not a lightweight under normal circumstances, Kazuya was still the weakest stomach in the crew, something they loved to exploit, especially when they made berth planetside and tired of whores and gaming. Being three-man for two consecutive days while they waited for Mitsu to make contact with Benito and complete their job was taking its toll on his system. Impatiently, he ran a hand through his hair, rocked back on his heels, and let out an exasperated sigh. "What then?"

Trout stared at him for three solid seconds then deliberately shifted her gaze to Gunner. She pointedly fixated on the pilot's 'trode, then on the tattoo on his left wrist, then back on the 'trode again. Gunner self-consciously drew his sleeves down but not before Kazuya had followed the baffling message and put two and two together.

"Oh. Hai. I get it. Lemme ask him, k?" He patted her on the head then turned to a bemused Gunner. "She wants to know if you've heard from the captain yet."

"No, actually, now that you mention it, I haven't had a ping from him in a couple hours," Gunner said thoughtfully. "Want I should try now?"

"You really want to do that?" Brek leaned forward on his overlong arms and joined the conversation.

"Yeah, knowing the cap'n, he's prolly in the middle of business right now, and I'm not talkin' the smugglin' kind either," Rigo leered.

Rhys snorted inelegantly. "Hetchi."

"Shaddup, kizoku!"

"Maybe you should try anyway, Gunn, just to be sure," Kazuhiro insinuated his lanky body diplomatically between the two hotheads and redirected the conversation to safer waters. The bar was starting fill up again, the predawn lull being replaced by the next wave of twenty-four hour carousers, and Kazuhiro knew well the smuggler code of discretion above all else.

The pilot shrugged noncommittally and swiveled around in his seat. He was already logged in to the system and it was only a matter of diverting the 'stream from data to comm. After several seconds, he frowned and shook his head at the crews enquiring looks. "Nothing."

They were all ready to leave it at that, being used to their captain's frequent bouts of inaccessibility whenever they made it to the City, but Trout was relentless. Her eyes shifted so insistently from Kazuya to Gunner that the former was forced to ask the pilot to try again for fear the girl would pass out from apoplexy. This time, when Gunner still came up negative, the men began to feel a creeping unease.

"You think maybe we should head to Sartre's to – you know – check things out?" Rigo asked, too casually.

"I'll go," Kazuya spoke up. "I could use a walk."

"You?" Kazuhiro chuckled. "You're three sheets to the wind, bro."

"I could go," Liam offered quietly.

"No, we all go," Gunner decided. He detached himself from the console, shoving his electrode into his pocket and fumbling for creds at the same time. "Kazuya, take Trout and get to the _Moirai_. I'm not saying anything's wrong yet, but just in case…"

"No!" Kazuya's refusal was compounded by Trout's fierce stamping of her right foot. "'All' means 'all', Gunn. We're part of 'all'. We're going too." The two looked mutinous and Gunner sighed.

"Brek…?"

"I'll go to the ship. I have to stow some supplies anyhow. I'll keep my comm on." The mechanic acquiesced graciously enough but his eyes belied the worry that was slowly overcoming them all.

The catman emerged from the cab, tipped the driver, and shrugged deeper into his voluminous cloak. He'd just ditched his inebriated client in a local brothel and was well rid of him. Common sense told him he should just go back to his pride and recover before the next job, but he was too deeply invested in the current situation and he needed to be present when things played out. So, despite gritty eyes and the weary ache in his bones from lack of sleep, he entered the deserted club and made directly for the bar. With the practiced ease of familiarity, Hypno handed him a drink, Sartre sat down next to him, and the three enjoyed a companionable quiet as they waited. They didn't have to wait very long.

"Here dey come. Right on schedule." Sartre grimaced as a boisterous ruckus outside the bar interrupted the silence.

"But without their beloved leader." Charybdis noted a bit too indifferently.

"Ah, so you di'nt miss dat little show earlier?"

"Couldn't help it. R'Ikeda was caterwauling his head off like a virj in a brothel."

"Why you di'nt do anything about it?"

"It's your club."

"You his gokenin."

"That's never been verified."

The club owner and the catman exchanged pithy looks over their drinks then dropped that topic of conversation. It was getting dangerously close to breaking the City's unspoken Code of anonymity and laissez faire. Before the silence grew any more strained, Hypno refilled their glasses with his latest concoction. The bartender smiled easily, his golden reptilian eyes unblinking.

"I can't believe you still let them in, after all the creds they owe you." Hypno addressed his boss.

"Good for business."

"You've got to be joking."

"Nah. See here…they're a bunch of toughs, right? And they do know how to brawl. I figure I keep them around, let 'em slide on a coupla tabs and they come regular, stand around looking scary. Keep the rest of the customers either safe and happy-feelin' or too scared shitless to make a fuss. Know what'm sayin'?"

"It's your world, Sartre. We all just want to live in it."

"Doncha all?"

The diminutive club owner winked at his bartender and right-hand man who, in turn, finished polishing off the last of the shot glasses then looked unenthusiastically to the entrance. The noise increased in volume, and when the door finally swung open, Hypno and Sartre had the fake smiles as befitted their profession firmly in place. Charybdis was expressionless but his catlike ears twitched in anticipation.

"Hoi, Suka! I hope ya gots lots of creds, man. Coz I'm ready to drink this place dry!"

"Aye, red! Git your arse movin'! We haven't got all day!"

"Is Kazuya buying? I guess that'll make up for my shirt…"

"Hiro, whassup wit' yo sib? He so good he gots to walk five steps behind us like some goddamn aristo?"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! Here speaks the voice of reason."

At this remark, a general hoot of good-natured derision ensued but subsided almost immediately. Holding his place as rear guard and dragging his feet slowly, Kazuya could almost imagine his damnable brother placating the others with his perpetually amused smirk. He knew what Gunner had said – act natural, play it cool, don't let on that we're concerned – but did everyone have to be so overzealously annoying? And at his expense, no less. He was pretty sure that had been his brother's doing. He hated his brother.

"As I was saying, my comrades, as the voice of reason in our merry band of misfits and miscreants, it is my duty to prevent dissension amongst the ranks by doing…this!"

Without further warning, Kazuya found himself plucked from the end of the line by a strong grasp to his collar and shoved unceremoniously into the dimly-lit depths of Sartre's club. As his eyes adjusted from outside glare to indoor murk, Kazuya freed himself roughly from his captor and whirled around to face the lanky blond. Kazuhiro placed both hands on his hips and cocked a brow, waiting for the inevitable.

"Have I told you yet today how much I hate you?" Kazuya spat out, completely forgetting the play-acting in the face of his brother's teasing.

"About thirty times. Isn't that right, Rigo?"

"Ah, Kazuhiro, methinks 'tis more like thirty-three."

"And counting, I'm sure. Anyone want to place bets on how many times my little sib can serenade us with his loathing for me?"

"I'll take that bet!"

"Hey, count me in!"

"Right here, pal!"

"What the hell – it's prolly the only way I'll get this shirt cleaned!"

"Well, Suka. Looks like you've got the power to make me a very wealthy man today. Keep it up, sib." Kazuhiro chucked his kid brother under the chin with an affection that only he was privy to. Much as he loved teasing the boy, he truly harbored a deep love for the little brat.

"Not if I can help it, kon'aro!" Kazuya shoved his brother with venom. A collective "oooh!" erupted from the onlookers. Kazuhiro grinned.

"I don't know, fellows. I think that's two. One for insulting me and one for overt show of force. That brings our count up to…how many?"

"Thirty-seven!"

"Rhys, you moron! Rigo just said thirty-three a sec ago. Can't you count? Oh, yeah. You can't. That's why you're just on demo detail, eh?"

"Come closer when you say that, Liam, and I'll take care of that other eye for ya!"

"Bring it on, pansy boy! Let's see what Sirenans are really made of!"

A brief scuffle ensued and Kazuya wisely stepped away from the larger men, making his way to the bar. He didn't want to know the outcome of the tussle, wasn't even interested enough to bet. He'd had enough fighting for the day, thank you very much; his swollen face was proof of this. He was just relieved that the focus was finally off him. Behind him, the redhead could feel his shadow tailing him. He ignored her, hopped onto a stool, hooked both feet on the bottom rung. Then he signaled at Hypno for a round of drinks and wearily reached into his pocket for a handful of creds.

Sartre stayed his hand. "Hold on there, bozu. This one's on the house."

Kazuya frowned. "What's going on, Sartre? You never give freebies so – well – _freely_. Especially not to us."

"You guys don't know yet, do you?"

"Know what?" Gunner asked grimly. The others dropped the pretense of normalcy and crowded the bar, fearing the worst.

"You wanna tell them or should I?" Sartre cocked his head at the catman who had chosen not to make his presence known initially. Charybdis had an uncanny knack of fading into shadows when he so chose. It was what made him and his kind so successful as assassins.

"Char? Hey, sorry, I didn't see you there! He'la!" Gunner thumped his chest with his fist and Charybdis did the same. The others began muttering greetings of their own but Kazuya, as was his wont, interrupted them.

"Is this news gonna make me hurl? Coz I don't need another ulcer, you know."

He was immediately cuffed on the head by a random hand. The redhead growled but subsided when he saw who had hit him. Next to Mitsu, Gunner was the only other member of their crew who instilled a modicum of respect in the youth.

Charybdis settled on his stool, his cloak pooling around him, and he surveyed the men. He had gotten to know the crew of the _Moirai_ intimately after that little fiasco in the Kuiper Belt two years ago and he knew they would not take the news well. He made bets with himself to see how each would react when he told them.

"They've got Mitsu." The catman announced without preamble.

Chaos erupted.

"Kuso! This is choberiba!"

"Those motherlovin' bastards!"

"Well, we're done for now!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

"We gotta go bust him out. Right, guys? Right? Huh, guys?"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

"Calm down! Stop yelling! Calm down, minna! I said urusai!" Gunner roared the last and was met with instant obedience.

"Thank you. Now, first thing's first. When did this all go down?" The pilot eyeballed Charybdis who gave up the floor to Sartre.

"Earlier last night. Some suit collared him in the stim room. A woman. Got past me using a holo, too, so I didn't suspect a thing till it all happened. It was so damned fast! There was nothin' I could do." The club owner bowed apologetically.

"We'll talk about that later, Sartre." Gunner cut the proprietor off shortly.

"I think you should know, Gunn, that the woman was a Guardian. Private forces. First tier, if I'm not mistaken," Charybdis offered up this bit of information with an inscrutable look on his face.

The howls that erupted upon this announcement were even louder than the first outburst. Gunner raised his eyebrow at Kazuhiro who promptly took the hint. The two senior crew members grabbed a random man and proceeded to shake them silent, the hapless Kazuya one of the targets once again. After much yowling, order was restored and Gunner addressed the men with grim intent.

"Okay, guys, we've gotta move fast. If they got him last night, that means they haven't had time to send him aboveside yet. The first chute doesn't go active till noon. They'll have kept him in the holding cells in Sector 4. That's where we'll go." Gunner was talking so fast that Kazuya, who was closest to him, could almost imagine the pilot's wetware frying at the speed of the synapses.

The others were not far behind. Already, Rigo was checking the level gauges of his blaster and Rhys was fingering the hilt of his claymore, a feral glint in his eye. Liam's good eye narrowed and he touched his bandolier to affirm the readiness of his deadly knives. Kazuhiro shook his head, askance at the immediate battle-readiness of the crew, but set his face in firm resolve when he realized he couldn't stop them.

"Um, guys?" Kazuya held up a hand hesitantly. "We're gonna fight, aren't we? It's gonna get messy, isn't it? I should stay by the _Moirai_ in case we need a quick getaway."

"Idiot!" Gunner smacked at his head again. "We won't need the ship. We'll need bodies to fling at the Guardians. I guess your skinny ass will do just as well. You're coming with us."

"But…but…"

"It's Mitsu."

With that soft declaration, Kazuya's protests died in his throat. Gunner was right. It _was_ Mitsu. Their captain. And every single one of them owed him their lives. Now was as good a time as any to pay up.

"It's settled. We're off. Sartre, thanks for the info. Char, could you make sure Trout stays away?" The girl in question bared her teeth but made no sound. "And we'd appreciate it if some of your pride could watch our ship. We're in Docking Bay 5. Brek's there already, but he's only one man. I wouldn't ask – don't want to involve you further – but…" Gunner left the sentence hanging. Bushido was between the catman and his captain and was not transferable. but in a case like this, one could always hope.

Charybdis did not disappoint. "I'll do you one better, Gunn. I'll stand guard myself."

"Thank you, Char. A debt is tallied." Gunner held out his left hand, palm up, in formal acknowledgement.

"A debt will be repaid." Charybdis completed the ritual by meeting the pilot's hand with his own paw. "Now go! By the looks of that Guardian last night, he'll be in a hell of a shape when you get him."

"By the way, any clue as to who put the snatch?" Kazuhiro thought to ask even as he followed the crew to the door.

"I don't know. As Sartre said, some woman. Short hair. Had one mean right hook. And the coldest green eyes this side of Avalon." The catman called out.

Kazuhiro froze in his tracks and the others did the same. As one, they all swiveled and stared at Charybdis. Kazuya swallowed audibly. No one spoke for a moment, then Rhys screwed up his courage and asked the question:

"Did she have red hair?"

"Yes. Even wilder than Kazuya's."

A devastating sigh swept the crew.

"The Morrigu."

"Shit, shit, shit!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: The Advocates**

"This is highly irregular, de Medici. What would the rest of the Enclave say if they knew?"

"But they won't know unless you tell them, D'Argent. And why would a clever man like yourself even contemplate doing such a rash thing like that?"

"This goes against everything we've built, everything we've supported…"

"Everything _you've_ supported, my dear Nuada. And besides, we're not doing anything illicit, are we? For all anyone knows, this is simply a chat between friends." To emphasize his point, the First Tier Advocate nodded his head pleasantly to the couple that strolled past, a picture of civility and nonchalance.

"Hmph."

Nuada D'Argent glanced at his companion as they made their way through the airy walkways of First Tier Plaza. It was a clear summer day, early enough in the season that the artificial ozone layer was able to filter out most of the sun's disastrous ultraviolets. The sky was a gentle cerulean above them, the grass a vibrant green. Nuada never failed to think of early nineteenth century Impressionists whenever he came aboveside to visit.

In contrast to the serene surroundings, Giancarlo de Medici was a study in harsh planes and angles. He towered over his portly counterpart by a good sixteen centimeters, slashing scenery as his thin frame knifed past. His aquiline nose hawked over a thin-lipped mouth and his sharp cheekbones jutted prominently from a pale face. Even de Medici's eyes called forth images of splintered glass, shard-like chips of obsidian that rarely showed emotion. Clean-shaven, hair shorn short in aristo fashion and coolly elegant in impeccably-cut robes, Giancarlo de Medici was a formidable man and was perhaps the most dangerous in all of history to have donned the mantle of First Tier Enclave Advocate.

An unobtrusive ping interrupted Nuada's contemplation of his sometime adversary and current co-conspirator. De Medici paused in their stroll and held up an index finger to indicate a call coming through. He closed his eyes and 'pathed directly to the Hub, accepting the transmission. Nuada graciously walked a few meters away to give the man privacy, even as he secretly envied de Medici's Empath abilities.

"She has him. They're at the Academy." De Medici approached the Second Tier Advocate after only a handful of minutes.

"She caught him yesterday?"

"Last night."

"But the chutes don't activate until noon." Nuada glanced at the chrono on his wrist to make sure he wasn't mistaken. "How…?"

"Nuada, my friend, there are secrets even you, as Academy president, are not privy to. Suffice to say, le Freya has our guest happily ensconced in your demesnes. I wouldn't doubt that they are currently taking liberties with your choice vintages as we speak."

Nuada spluttered incoherently at the thought. If there was one thing the usually ascetic man indulged in it was his private stock of wines. Considered contraband for most due to the rarity of land to grow the grapes on, wine was reserved exclusively for the tables of the First Families. Nuada's owning a bottle, let alone an entire cellar, was tantamount to high treason. It was only his friendship with de Medici and some covert finagling that kept him from being thrown in the gaol.

"Calm yourself, my friend. A jest only, to be sure. I doubt that Ikeda is in any mood to celebrate at the moment. Speaking of celebration, however, how goes it with your discovery?"

At the mention of his protégé, Nuada immediately forgot his wines and beamed proudly.

"Shinobu is doing exceptionally well. His 'path ratios rival even the most purestrain of aristos."

"Yes, yes. I've seen the stats you sent earlier. That was not what I meant. I want to know if you've apprised him of our little venture yet."

"Well, actually, we've been so excited over the tests that I…"

"Nuada, you know as well as I that our plans need to be executed in the most expedient manner as possible. It's difficult enough having one unwilling player. I need to know if Tezuka will be ready when the time comes."

"Oh, I have no doubt," Nuada replied, his eyes taking on an uncharacteristically steely sheen. "Shinobu will be operative in the week we had allotted for preparation and debriefing. You just have to do your part in the meantime."

"You mean the Enclave? Do you really foresee any dissenters? Aside from that irritating little gnat, of course." De Medici led them down the spiral that made up the center of the Plaza. It was less populated here, the chest-high hedges effectively ensuring privacy as the two men wound through the circular path.

"That irritating gnat is still Third Tier Advocate, Giancarlo."

"Loki Swift is an insignificant City dweller, a popinjay so puffed up with his own self-importance that he would argue he was a woman if it suited his purposes. All the Enclave knows this. I can deal with Swift's protests, wearying though that may be. Besides," de Medici indulged in a rare smile that, rather than putting Nuada at ease, only filled him with trepidation, "by the time the rest of our brethren realize what we've set in motion, the key players will be out of their reach."

"Is the crew assembled? Provisions? A trip of that magnitude…they'd have to be equipped to survive at least nine months in space."

"The gears are in motion. All is taken care of. If I didn't know better, my friend, I'd think you were stalling for time." De Medici kept walking but flicked a glance at his companion out of the corner of his eye.

"And if I didn't know better, my friend, I'd think you were trying to put me on the defensive because you're keeping something from me." Nuada matched the man's even tone.

"Touché."

Nuada chuckled softly and de Medici snorted, both reacting to the adversarial camaraderie that characterized their friendship. Neither one would give an inch, of course; they would both play their cards close to their chests. The two Advocates were wise enough to recognize that men in power such as they did well to keep a few secrets from the other, friends though they may be.

They reached the center of the spiral then, pausing to admire the fountain of Pallas Athene located in the heart of the pseudo maze. Nuada thought of the paradox the goddess represented: war and wisdom. But perhaps not so much a paradox? After all, hadn't mankind waged war throughout history because of wisdom gained or wisdom withheld? What a fitting place to plot what could possibly lead to a monumental shift in their society's paradigm.

The hefty Second Tier Advocate sat down wearily on one of the stone benches surrounding the fountain, surreptitiously wiping at his brow with the corner of his robe's sleeve. He was no longer a young man, and his life at the Academy did not exactly call for hard labor. He was out of shape. If this all came down to war, Nuada knew he would be the first to fall. He didn't think he could count on de Medici for aid. Nuada stroked his graying beard nervously. He had others. But would they be enough?

"And the Pope? What will he say once he finds out?"

"My dear Nuada, who do you think is funding this lovely little plan in the first place? You didn't think we'd have gotten this far on my reputation alone?" de Medici was softly scornful. "You lend me too much credence, signore."

"You can't be serious!"

"Pope Faustus is dying, Nuada. You know this, I know this. If we're not careful, the whole of Avalon will know it soon enough as well. And it's because of this instability that we must act as we've planned. Imagine the chaos once the masses find out and we don't have our pieces in place."

Horror skittered across Nuada's florid face. "The magnitude…"

"Exactly. Sects will rise; Families will fracture; anarchy will be rife in the City. It will be just like it had been after the Collapse years ago. And," here de Medici was deliberately sly, "Second Tier will be caught in the middle."

Nuada, visibly shaken, dabbed at his brow again. The papacy was directly involved; he hadn't counted on that. The balance of power among the Tiers was tenuous at best, and the papacy had always been the overriding neutrality that kept them all in check. If Faustus had thrown in his lot with de Medici…

"You're talking about a coup d'état!"

De Medici snorted. "Let's not be vulgar, Nuada!"

"But what else could it be? If First Tier is in collusion with the papacy, it would mean a significant shift in the hierarchy."

"Since when did you care about politics, signore? As long as Second Tier maintains its autonomy, I don't see how this changes anything for you."

"But everyone else? Third Tier? The outer colonies?"

"Altruism? From an academic? I didn't think you had it in you, Nuada."

The two men stared at each other and, as both had expected, the Second Tier Advocate backed down first. Nuada gritted his teeth but could do no more than that if he wanted to keep whatever leverage he had left. He silently berated himself for thinking so short-sightedly. If he had only accepted that initial offer from Swift, he would have been able to rest easier. But who could have predicted this alarming turn of events?

_Ah, D'Argent. You're getting too old for this_, Nuada thought.

"Why me, Giancarlo? Why take me in your confidence? If the papacy is in your pocket, what need you of me?"

"First philanthropy and now self-doubt. You have missed your calling, mi amico. Perhaps I should have sent you as my emissary to the pope." De Medici laughed softly, then held up a conciliatory hand to stay Nuada's sputtering.

"Why you, you ask? Nuada, you underestimate your influence as much as you overestimate mine. I need you to prevent as much collateral damage from happening as possible. Yes, I desire the power that an absolute dictatorship would afford; if you were honest, you would accede that our society would actually benefit from such a regime. We are a devolving people, Nuada. The Collapse has hurt us more than we can conceive. For every advancement in technology we make, we take that many exponential steps back as a species. Strong leadership, be it martial and tyrannical, is what we need if we are to go on."

De Medici's eyes grew distant and his tone remained even, but the tautness in his shoulders belied his true emotion. It was the most fervor Nuada had seen from the man in the many years of their acquaintance and he did not know if this heartened him or frightened him. He was still too shocked, however, to do more than listen mutely to the Advocate's exposition.

"But I do not want to have to destroy all that we have gained. Surely you can see that? To what purpose, starting over? No, I would like to keep intact the order we possess. I intend only to improve, not recreate. Having religious backing is only the first step, however. I also need the support of the intelligentsia – the wise men, if you will. With you in my camp, the transition of power will be bloodless and painless. A glorious revolution that will benefit everyone, even those you purportedly champion."

De Medici blinked and seemed to come back to himself at the end of his speech. He gave his companion a sideways glance, almost sheepish and pleading but that could have been Nuada's imagination. The Second Tier Advocate did not know what to make of it; it was too much information too suddenly. And the fact that de Medici had been so forthright, especially so close to the mission's inception, was also an important thing to consider. The man had plans within plans and Nuada decided he had to tread cautiously if he wanted to keep what little advantage he had left. He would ponder the implications later and at great length. For now, he would act with as much aplomb as he could muster.

"So you say everything's in order and once again, we come full circle to me."

"Aye."

"And to Shinobu."

"Aye. Your unbelievable discovery. The Academy's best-kept secret. It's ironic, really." De Medici joined him on the bench.

"What is?"

"That you concern yourself with appeasing the Enclave so much yet you have been heading a project that would have them stone you for heresy at the very least."

"It's unorthodox, yes. But if they only saw the charts, they'd forget all about Tier hierarchy! Why, the neurists have told me that Shinobu's charts read higher than your best Empath by ten percent!"

"I find that hard to believe."

"But you said you read my report. It's all in there!"

De Medici paused, caught in his flagrant lie. If he were honest, he really didn't give a damn about Shinobu Tezuka and his supposedly astounding abilities. All he expected from Nuada's protégé was enough Empath skills to complete the mission successfully. After it was all over, the off-worlder could go back to being the nonentity he had been, for all de Medici cared. Still, Nuada seemed to hold the little manling in high regard so it would be bad form to antagonize his peer overmuch; de Medici was already regretting revealing his intentions prematurely. Appeasement was in order.

"I must confess: I merely skimmed the data. You know we Empaths don't bother reading," the First Tier Advocate was apologetic. "It's a sad commentary on society, I know, so don't get on your soapbox, Nuada. But we have relied on our Empath skills for a long time, even before the Collapse. It's a very difficult habit to break. And when you send me these datastreams on my palmscreen…ah, too many words!"

Nuada was about to make a nasty comment about the illiteracy rate amongst First Tiers, especially First Family members, when he realized that pointing it out would be like tipping his hand. Firsters were notorious for their distinct lack of interest in anything not instantaneous, reading being one of them. This aversion was what kept them so aloof from everyone belowside and it had its definite advantages. It was how Nuada had smuggled his wines into the Academy, First Tier Guardians being really lax when reading order dockets.

_But at times like these, when expediency is key…he even stressed so himself! How could he not read the damned reports? Sometimes, I could just throttle the man!_

Nuada had just about decided to indulge in his ire and scold his friend anyway when de Medici stunned him by falling off the bench, his head clutched in both hands. He tumbled over so quietly, so gracefully. But his face was frozen in a rictus of pain, and the seriousness of the situation was not lost on the Second Tier Advocate.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Nuada knelt by his friend's side, genuine fear spiraling in his stomach.

The water from the fountain played counterpoint to de Medici's rasping breathing.

"Giancarlo! Should I call a medic?" Nuada made to leave but was stopped by a hand clutching his robes.

"Nuada…you insufferable…academic…" de Medici managed a rueful chuckle even as he winced in pain. "You were…right. I should have…read those...reports."

"What are you talking about?"

"That, my friend, was what we Empaths call recoil feedback. If you would…?" de Medici gestured to the bench.

"That sounds ugly. And pretty painful, if it made you so weak you're asking for help," Nuada cracked, his normal aplomb shaken so much that he dispensed with tact and fell back on bluntness instead.

De Medici glared at the implied chink in his armor but was too spent to put up much of a fight. Wearily rubbing at his temples, he offered an explanation: "Your untrained Empath spiked a message."

"Spiked? Recoil feedback? Giancarlo, this is all Greek to me."

"So you read your neurists reports without actually understanding them?" De Medici gently needled. Then he bowed conciliatorily at Nuada's start of affront. "Forgive me. That was uncalled for. Let me try to clarify: Empaths are trained at birth to control their neural waves. We're taught not to "shout" because it fries the synapses of those within a two-meter radius of us. If you're a high-level Empath, you can inadvertently kill someone with merely a thought. Are you following this?"

"I'm not a child, Giancarlo."

"True. As I was saying, then: purestrains are trained at birth. And the halfstrains we discover early enough – they usually reveal their abilities at adolescence. Although it's more difficult for them, they learn to master control over their brain waves as well. But once in a while, we stumble on a rogue Empath, someone either too old to learn the techniques, or simply too unstable emotionally to handle the input from non-Empath folk who have no control over their thoughts.

Imagine the pain these rogues go through. It's similar to being forced to listen to hundreds of thousands of audiodecks at the same time, with no way to turn down the volume or focus on one channel. The Empaths who can't control their synapses go insane. Or they kill themselves. Or they spike and then they kill others."

"Spiking is like shouting, then?" Nuada tried to make sense of the information.

"You could say that. But because it's not directed at any one person, like a "shout" would be, the spike is much less discriminate. Depending on the intensity of the rogue's emotion and the level of his capabilities, a spike could penetrate even the most experienced Empath's thought shields and overload synapses. When that happens, any Empath within a four-meter radius gets a taste of that power unleashed and thus, recoil feedback."

"And you have some rogues around here now?"

"No, we don't. The last rogue we dealt with killed herself before she could cause further harm to her family."

"Then..."

"The only untrained Empath I know of is your protégé, Nuada."

"Shinobu? But he's at the Academy on Second Tier! That's nearly 600 meters down!"

De Medici looked directly at his friend. For the first time in the nearly twenty years of friendship between them, Nuada saw fear lacing the man's dark eyes as the same realization hit him too.

"Yes, he is."

Nuada swallowed convulsively. "But he was doing so well! He had control over his synapses! We threw every test we could at him and he handled each one magnificently!"

"Well, perhaps your boy is not as adept as you think. Either that," de Medici raised a hand against his friend's protest, "or something happened belowside, Nuada. Something so traumatic that it sent Tezuka over the edge."

"But what could possibly be so harrowing that would make Shinobu lose control like that?"

"I think you need to find that out."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Prodigal**

Mitsu R'Ikeda was enjoying his confinement. Had he known how pleasant jail could be, he would not have waited so long to have gotten arrested.

"Ah, this is the life," he sighed happily, heaving two shabby boots onto a well-lacquered table and sucking the marrow from a stripped chicken bone.

Across from him, the Guardian visibly winced, either at his uncouth manners or at the scratches on the expensive furniture he was sure to create as he tipped his chair back and put more of his weight on his heels.

_Or both_, Mitsu thought cheerfully, reaching forward and snatching a juicy apple from the serving platter.

"So," he crunched loudly and spoke with his mouth full, "what time are we going aboveside? Can't wait for the family reunion!"

The Guardian glared at him but didn't bother to respond. It was such a 180 degree turnaround from their first meeting when she'd been such a hot piece of ass. Mitsu had half-hoped she'd keep the holo on; at least then she would've given him something to look at since she obviously wasn't going to provide him with conversation. As it was, her ferocious scowl was keeping him from fully enjoying the best food he'd had in years.

"Maybe we can take a private chute? I've heard about those, you know. Damned waste, if you ask me. Like any of us grubbers would even be awake early enough to need a private transport."

Silence.

"You hungry? Want some of this?" Mitsu waved a hand at the plentiful feast expansively, acting as if he were more a host at a dinner party than a captured criminal.

No response.

"Who you working for anyway? I can't imagine the Ikeda clan funding your outfit. You look pretty high up in the pecking order. The triple bars mean Captain, ne?"

Nothing.

"Hey, how about some professional courtesy, huh? You're a captain; I'm a captain. What say we call a truce and take advantage of all this before it's all gone. Oh, whoops!" Mitsu devoured the last mouthful of pastry. "Too late. All gone."

Mitsu patted his stomach, sated, then almost wished he hadn't gobbled the food down so greedily. Now he had nothing to do but think, and he'd always maintained that thinking was overrated. Take, for example, his current situation. Had he been an ordinary felon, he would have nothing more serious to worry about than the confiscation of his ship and ten years of hard labor in the Kuiper mines. Not that those options were palatable, but at least they were a given and that would have been the end of that. Mitsu was no ordinary felon, however. The Guardian had pretty much let the cat out of the bag when she'd nabbed him. They weren't after him because of the smuggling; they were after him because he was an Ikeda. It was not law; it was politics.

Ten years – no, let's be honest! – five years ago, Mitsu would have gnawed and harried at the thought so much as to render himself angst-ridden and useless, but life was funny in that it allowed for even the most painful memories to dissipate over time. So now, Mitsu could truly say that he could give a tinker's damn why his estranged family would choose to seek him out after a decade; it just wasn't worth the effort. He had better things with which to concern himself, like figuring out the vintage of the contraband wine he was currently slurping inelegantly from an equally contraband crystal goblet.

"You know, you would be a much happier person if you just let loose and smiled once in a while. Try it; it's fun." Mitsu bared his teeth in a wide, slightly loopy grin, the heady wine taking its toll on his system even on a full belly.

The Guardian stared back stonily.

Still grinning, Mitsu began to belt out a bawdy space ballad, designed specifically to elicit some sort of reaction form his captor. He had just gotten to a particularly naughty verse about two pilots and a sausage when the door swished open.

"Mitsuru. Still as boorish as ever."

Mitsu blinked at the newcomer then, without missing a beat, proceeded to finish his song lustily. Then he tipped back even further in his chair, let his head drop back so he was staring at the ceiling and addressed no one in particular. "My, but it's gotten awfully cold in here all of a sudden."

A sound that could have been a snarl came from the near vicinity of the door. Moments later, Mitsu heard the door swish again and he prayed to Buddha that the right person had left the room. He surreptitiously lowered his eyes to peek and sighed. Damn his luck!

"He'la, Nagisa. I see the last decade has been unkind."

Nagisa Ikeda, nee Ito drew her hands into claws and launched herself at her errant stepbrother with a wordless yowl. He, in turn, hastily realized the error of his greeting and tried to get out of her way. Of course, he had forgotten how long he'd held his languid pose, and that his legs had fallen asleep without his knowing. So rather than leaping up gracefully from his chair and locking her in a stranglehold as he'd planned, Mitsu found himself flat on his arse being repeatedly if painlessly pummeled by the incensed woman.

Just outside the room, the Guardian gripped her comlink and debated whether or not she should apprise her client of the visitor. De Medici hadn't said R'Ikeda was to be kept in solitary; in fact, her orders had been more than accommodating where the prisoner was concerned.

_Food, wine, comfortable quarters. He might as well be some sort of dignitary, the way they expect me to confine him_, she thought in disgust.

Still, for all her reservations about the arrangements, the Guardian knew better than to question an employer, and a generous employer at that. It had not been difficult to track R'Ikeda – he was rather well-known in City circles after all. It had only taken a bit of poking around to see which bars he frequented and when he made landfall, then all she had had to do was wait it out. Easy prey; easy money.

But it did not sit well with her, this coddling of a felon. And he _was_ a felon. A smuggler, no less. Had she been in the employ of local authorities, he would have been locked up in a holding cell and left to rot with the other scum until the next shuttle to Kuiper.

A particularly loud thump and another scream interrupted the Guardian's thoughts. She wondered idly if she ought to go in and stop the nonsense then decided she wasn't being paid that much. It sounded like the two had some business to complete and de Medici hadn't said anything about "safe", right?

_Food, wine, comfortable quarters. I've done my job._ Turning on her heel, the Guardian stalked off to find her men for some much-needed drills, conveniently setting her comlink to standby.

"Now this is the…kind of – oomph! – welcome I had – ouch! – expected," Mitsu tried to bat away at his assailant, grunting at each lucky punch she landed.

"You…can…go…to hell!" Nagisa punctuated each word with more ineffectual flailing.

"Oi, oi…watch the face! Can we – k'so! – call a truce? If you keep – argh! – hitting me, I might just barf."

The smuggler suddenly found himself thrashing around to nothing. When he was finally able to pull up on one elbow and peer at her, he realized his stepsister had adjusted her clothing, regained her composure, and had made her way to the window on the far side of the room. Her back was to him and Mitsu was able to study her openly.

He had spoken in haste, a knee-jerk reaction to her sudden appearance, and he had been mistaken. The years had not been unkind to his stepsister. On the contrary, the decade gone had done what no man could have ever hoped to achieve: it had honed her into a fine specimen of a woman. She had always been tall, but in their youth, she was spoken more of as being gangly and coltish. Now, time had filled out her spare form and had refined her awkwardness. He hardly recognized her. Nagisa looked positively regal, from her black bob – close-cropped in the aristo style – to her slender neck to her statuesque figure, held haughty and aloof with a cool constraint. Mitsu was almost glad for her initial ferocity; had she not attacked him so passionately as was their wont, he would have sworn she was an entirely different person altogether. As he watched her warily, she plucked a stim cartridge from her pocket and lit up.

"Hey, gimme one!"

"As if!" she threw back at him, and he grinned at her immaturity. Some things never changed.

"Come on!"

"No."

"Please? Onegai?" Mitsu got on his knees and wheedled.

"Get your own."

"They confiscated all my stuff. Even my favorite chrono." Mournfully, Mitsu remained on the floor, batting his eyelashes in his best winsome fashion.

Nagisa blew a smoke ring, unmoved. "Serves you right."

The smuggler looked affronted, and started to work himself into a good mad. "Oi, you were the one who came looking for me, alright? I mean, thanks for the grub and all and thanks for not sending me straight to the mines, but…" 

"Who said we were looking for you?"

That brought Mitsu up short. "Huh?"

"For all I cared, you could've gone on your merry way forever, playing pirate and doing disgusting pirates things…"

"We prefer to be called couriers," Mitsu interrupted, offended.

"…as long as you kept the Family out of it. And good riddance, I might add. But no! The great Mitsuru Ikeda had to go and make a name for himself as a pirate, didn't he? He had to go showboating and swanning around the universe like Buddha's gift to mankind. You were always like that, Mitsuru! All for the glory. No concern about whether or not your escapades would blemish the Family or anyone else as long as you got your way. As long as you came out on top…"

"Wah, wah, wah!" Mitsu mocked, getting up from the floor and reaching for his drink.

"Oh, shut up! Just shut up! You should be grateful I'm even here! I came to see for myself – see for one last time before…"

"Before what?"

"Nothing." Nagisa walked to the serving table and crushed the stim into an empty plate.

"No, finish. Before what?" Mitsu did not care for her sudden change of mood. He set his wine glass down and folded his arms across his chest. "What are you talking about? What's really going on here, Nagisa? Is this some sort of new aristo game – let's see who has the biggest screw-up in the Family? "

The woman gave him a trenchant look then started for the door. "I have to go."

"Wait! Chotto matte! Just wait a minute!" Mitsu held out a hand to stay her. "Tell me…how's Dad? And Sho? How's he doing? I bet he's become quite the clan leader, all proper and man of the house now that he's of age." He laughed deprecatingly.

Nagisa stared at him in disbelief. "You don't know."

"What?" The sincere shock on her face made him uneasy, and Mitsu immediately dropped his devil-may-care act. "What do you mean?"

"You really don't know. Mother had said something to that effect, but I couldn't be sure." Nagisa's eyes went distant as she held on to the table for support. All the fire and ire seemed to seep out of her as she got lost in thought, speaking quietly as if more to herself than for Mitsu's benefit. "You were always so self-absorbed, and I didn't put it past you to have known but to not have cared. Still, your own blood…I thought that, at least, would have called you back, had you really known."

"Known what?"

"The last year has been fraught with trouble, you see, and Mother kept telling me all was well, but when the collectors came and they took him away after the last attack…"

"Attack?! What attack? Attacked who?"

"…and then Otousan turned to God and pledged himself to the Church, thinking that would solve everything. Foolish old man!"

"The Church?!"

"And still Mother said we would be fine. But de Medici kept pushing and pushing and we lost face and the other clans turned their backs on us, and he was so weak. He wanted to help – he tried all he could – but it wasn't enough and they took everything away!" Nagisa's voice rose higher and higher as each breathless recounting of events brought her to an anguished wail.

Mitsu was beginning to panic. It was so uncharacteristic for his stepsister to be so vulnerable and so – _helpless_. His mind whirled with the dozen possibilities of what could have occurred in his absence, all the while indulging in a savage bout of self-recrimination for being so self-absorbed that he had not bothered to keep tabs on his family during his imposed absence.

"Everything! Everything gone! But that wasn't enough for them. No! They said we'd be outcasted, our very name stricken from the clan records. We'd have had nowhere to go. We'd have been the lowest of the low. Oh, you probably wouldn't have cared. You and your obsession with a life of adventure! But what of us? Sho so weak and Mother so desperately clinging on to the only life she knew. How would we have survived? What could we have done?"

"Nagisa!" Mitsu all but screamed in frustration and fear. "What the hell are you talking about?"

But Nagisa was trapped in a spiral of memories past and she went on heedlessly. "I only came for his sake; certainly not for yours. He said you would have changed, that you would have learned compassion and selflessness. That maybe you would come of your own volition and help us. He believed in you. Mother warned me, said it was too late and that I'd just make things worse, but I had to see for myself, at least so I can tell him I did."

"K'so, Nagisa! Will you drop the enigmatic act already? Just spit it out!"

"Gomen ne, Mitsuru. Mother sends her love."

Mitsuru felt a sharp pain in his neck then he looked, aghast, at the syringe poking out from his jugular. Right before he blacked out, he could have sworn he saw something that looked frighteningly like pity in his stepsister's eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The Empath**

_There. There it is again._

"Shinobu."

_That glimmer…so bright, yet…shadowy…_

"Shinobu, are you with me?"

Almost…got…it… 

"Signore Tezuka! Report now!"

_Almost had it._

"Hai. I'm here." He opened his eyes lazily then blinked at the brightness that assailed them.

"Where were you? You went off the scope and we couldn't reach you."

"Oh, surely you weren't worried? I'm still here, after all." Shinobu Tezuka could not quite mask the irritation he felt at being distracted from his little mental foray.

"That's not the point and you know it. If you don't keep hold of the tether when you 'path, we can't monitor you."

"You can't control me, you mean."

"Shinobu!" A third voice joined the conversation, this one sounding a bit affronted.

"Ah, Dr. Zeichen. I didn't realize you were up there too." Shinobu flicked a glance at the opaque glass that hid the observation deck several meters above him.

"Would it have mattered had you known?"

"Of course, Anna. One should always be considerate of a woman's tender sensibilities." Amusement twined around the statement.

Dr. Anna Zeichen blew the blond bangs from her forehead in exasperation. So he was in one of _those_ moods again. She didn't know what was stronger: her desire to throttle him or an uncontrollable desire to plant a big, wet one on those luscious lips. And he knew he had that effect on her too, damn him! His voice, normally already smooth and well-modulated for a colonist, would drop dark and smoky like tinted glass when he spoke to her.

Shinobu's teasing alternately flustered and angered the doctor. It simply wasn't very professional to feel for one's subjects, yet the man really got under her skin. Anna had even toyed with the idea of asking to be assigned to a different case, but Nuada D'Argent had wanted her to head his pet project. And what Nuada wants…

"Nuada gets?" Shinobu leaned forward in the reclining chair and spoke huskily into the com.

"Stop that!" The woman snapped.

"Stop what, Anna?"

"Get out of my head, Tezuka! I may not be an uber Empath like you, but I can still make your life miserable here at the Academy. So you will kindly address me in a manner befitting our status."

"Hai, Herr doctor!" Shinobu thought a salute and a clicking of shiny, black boots at the woman.

"That's it! He's done for the day. 'Trode him off, Dr. Reki." Anna hastily snapped her clipboard shut, refusing to look at her colleague for fear of what she might find on his face.

She needn't have worried. The Drego's expression was as stoic as ever. He tapped on the keyboard in front of him and the screens' glare that glinted off his scales abruptly went dead.

"Shinobu, you're free to go." Reki announced over the com.

"Thank you, doctors. Anna, always a pleasure." The silver-haired man stretched languidly then pulled the monitor 'trodes from his forehead.

The doors to the lab swished open and the room went dim, signaling the end of the session. Shinobu checked the time from the chrono on the wall. _The monkey gets a break? So soon? I must ask Nuada to have Anna monitor me personally more often._

He'd never seen Zeichen in person. In fact, he'd never met any of the neurists face to face in the year and a half he'd been at the Academy. He'd wondered why in the beginning, but when he'd broached the subject with Nuada, the man had brushed his concerns aside and mumbled something about procedure.

Shinobu hadn't minded. There were plenty of other things to occupy him. When Nuada had found him on Danae and had offered to train him at the Academy, he'd been hesitant at first. Sure, his life on the backwater colony hadn't exactly been a bed of roses, but it had been home. Then several events had transpired and Shinobu had no choice but to leave. Nuada had capitalized on his misfortune, dangling the proverbial carrot in front of his nose.

So to the Academy he'd gone. And once here, Shinobu found himself presented with myriad distractions to keep his mind off his circumstances. Gaia was the mecca of the galaxy after all, the mother planet around which everything revolved, and Avalon was her golden child.

Shinobu made his way through the corridors of the neurology lab and emerged into the outer courtyard of the Academy, an octagon-shaped expanse that provided a common meeting area for all the other Guild halls. During one of his bleaker periods, when he'd not wanted to be around people and had immersed himself in study instead, Shinobu had read up on architecture and civil engineering. Upon observing the Academy's layout, he'd discovered that it had been created with a distinctly medieval renaissance feel to it.

Shinobu appreciated the old-world ambience of brick and cobblestones, of twining ivy and airy pergolas that connected the buildings. He liked the way each hall faced the courtyard and how, from any given window in any given structure, one could spy on the comings and goings of Academy folk. He enjoyed the juxtaposition of the archaic conceit without and the advanced technology within.

And he'd made good use of that advanced technology. On Danae, a colony known primarily for mining and not much else, there had been little in the way of academic pursuit. Shinobu had always felt there was something missing in his life and at the time, he hadn't realized it was his thirst for knowledge that gnawed at his insides. Meeting Nuada and hearing all about the 150 guilds and the endless stream of data that the Academy was privy to had set his imagination on fire. Or so he had half-convinced himself was the reason for his piqued interest. If the real truth be told, Shinobu's ulterior motive for acquiescing to his displacement was the realization that 150 guilds and an endless stream of data would surely unearth the answer to his gods-bedamned "condition". So, if he were honest with himself, Shinobu had to admit that his mind had already been made up to leave Danae even before that unfortunate incident had occurred.

He knew he'd made the right decision after his first six months at the Academy. Shinobu had been methodical, as was his wont, and had started alphabetically, visiting the Anatomy Guild first and pestering the scientists there with every conceivable question his data-starved mind could cook up. Flattered by such eager attention, the men and women had given Shinobu full access to their files. He'd soaked it up like a sponge, even pushing them gently into directions that opened their eyes to innovative new theories.

Word got around about Nuada's pet project and his amazing intelligence and intuition, although few ever really discovered the real reason for his presence there. This didn't matter to the academics and artisans, however. More Guilds had approached Shinobu with offers to teach him all they knew and the learning had not stopped since. If Shinobu sometimes felt twinges of apprehension about certain oddities – like his being confined to Second Tier or his being kept in the dark as to Nuada's eventual purpose for him – he managed to disregard them in the face of all the other knowledge he was accumulating.

Being poked and prodded like a guinea pig was also another small price to pay for the mysteries and conundrums he eagerly sought to solve.

_Speaking of mysteries, let me try this again._

Shinobu hid in the shade behind his favorite statue in the courtyard – a replica of Michelangelo's David – and closed his eyes in an attempt to capture that elusive tendril of light and shadow that had plagued him, on and off, for the past five years. It wasn't elusive anymore. In fact, it sang in his mind strongly like a clarion of hallelujahs.

_Light…and shadows. So…fascinating. So…beautiful…_

"What the hell…?" Mitsu raised a shaky hand to his head and struggled groggily to get up from his prone position.

"I'd advise against doing that, Signore Ikeda."

"Yeah? Well, screw you!" He heaved himself up and was immediately inundated by a hundred needles of fire playing hopscotch in his head. Mitsu groaned loudly and fell back, clutching at his temples.

"You were warned." The voice sounded smug.

"Who the hell are you? Where am I?" Mitsu looked around cautiously and could find no evidence of the person anywhere in the stark, dimly-lit room.

"One question at a time, please."

"Answer me now, baka yaro!" The smuggler had recovered enough to regain his natural belligerence, although he did wince in pain as he raised his voice.

"Request invalid. Cannot compute. Please rephrase."

_Dammit. Droids. I can't work with droids._

Standing was still a distant hope as pain pierced his skull. It felt like someone had juiced his wetware. Mitsu wouldn't put it past Nagisa to do something as underhanded as jacking him with a disruptor even after she'd nailed him with the knockout drugs.

_And I was actually starting to feel sorry for her!_

The smuggler winced ruefully then appraised his surroundings flat on his back. It was devoid of any furniture save the bed he was on. The walls were smooth plasticrene and emitted a sickly bluish glow, a poor excuse for light. The room was a four meter by four meter box with no evidence of a door or windows. A blinking red light in the center of the ceiling marked the comlink from which the droid had spoken. It was a far cry from his earlier accommodations.

Mitsu had been in enough places like these in his ten years as a runner to recognize it. A holding cell, then. The smuggler expected nothing less, especially after his insolence to both his stepsister and the Guardian who he was now sure was in her employ. He belatedly remembered elbowing the Guardian in the nose on their way out of the club. He also remembered the right hook she had nailed him with in retaliation.

_No wonder she didn't want to have dinner with me. I bet she was just outside that door, waiting to goose it to me. Damn that bitch! Damn Nagisa! I'm gonna make them pay when I get outta here!_

But it was not the time to think retribution. Right now, he needed to recalibrate his wetware and get the hell out of Dodge. By his internal clock, Mitsu figured it was about mid-morning which meant he was still in the City; the chutes didn't activate till noon.

_Good. The longer away I am from getting shipped aboveside, the happier I'll be._ Mitsu thought grimly. There was a reason he'd not stepped foot on either of the upper Tiers since he was fifteen. It was the same reason that brought a bleak, shuttered look to his eyes at their mere mention. His crew had learned early on never to speak of Avalon's higher echelons when he was within hearing range. Doing so was dangerous, as Rigo had found out that one time.

_Rigo. The guys. Wonder where they think I am. Hope Char and Sartre tuned them in. Coz if that Guardian is still around, I _may_ just need their help busting outta here_, Mitsu grudgingly admitted to himself. His niggling conscience cheered at this admission of his inadequacy.

Mitsu decided that enough time had elapsed for his 'ware to recover the overload. The pain in his head was now more a dull throbbing rather than a spearing fire. He attempted to sit up once more. And then he noticed it.

"You motherlovin' sons of bitches! You bastards! Damn you! What have you done to my hair?!"

Mitsu clutched at the back of his head. His ponytail was gone, shorn off to just below his ears, leaving his nape naked and vulnerable. He felt for his 'trode port gingerly; it had been years since it'd been exposed like that. Mitsu experienced a profound sense of violation and mounting apprehension. Why the hair? What purpose did that serve? Humiliation? It wasn't like Guardians to play mind games; they were strictly protocol whores who did everything by the book. This wasn't their style. Maybe Nagisa, to remind him of his allegiance to the Families?

Mitsu was about to call out to the droid again, if only just to chase away his anxiety with a show of bravado, when he felt a tickling inside his head, as if someone had dug fingers into his skull and started playing piano. It was a familiar, albeit uncomfortable, sensation.

_It's happening again. I thought I'd gotten rid of it after I'd limited my runs in the Omega Belt. What the hell? Am I going crazy for sure this time?_

Mitsu shook his head but the tickling continued. And then he heard the whispering:

[Light…and shadows. So…fascinating…so…beautiful…

"No! Stop it! Get the hell out of my mind! Droid! Oi, you worthless hunk of metal! What the hell is going on here?" Mitsu leaped off the bed and proceeded to bang ineffectually at the walls.

"What seems to be the trouble, Ikeda?" A new voice came over the com. This time, it sounded human.

"I don't know what you've got jacked in my 'ware but I want it out now! You hear me? This is in violation of code 7459, you rat bastards!" Mitsu craned his neck and yelled at the red light.

[Ah…darkness. And confusion? Fear? The shadows…the light…they're calling…

"I don't know what you're talking about, Ikeda. We haven't done a thing to your wetware. Well, except juice it to keep you amenable."

"Amenable, my ass! And I don't believe you!" Mitsu was beginning to feel frantic, hammering at the walls and shaking his head to rid himself of the whispering.

[Shadows. Shadows are…taking over. No more…light? Hello? Who are you?

"I don't really care what you believe, Ikeda." The voice over the com grew cold.

"Hey, lady! Is that you? The bitch with the red hair? Coz if it's you, why don't you come in here and we can go round two, huh? And this time I'm ready for you!"

[Don't be afraid. I'm your…friend?

"You're really a glutton for punishment, aren't you?" The voice was derisive.

"It _is_ you! Let me outta here, you bitch! And stop transmitting!" Mitsu ceased his attack on the walls and cradled his battered fists against his chest. The whispering was getting stronger and it was sapping any vigor he had left.

"I don't know what you're talking about. But if you want out, then you'll be getting your wish soon. Doctors? I think he's ready."

The red light above went dead.

"Ready? Ready for what?" Mitsu looked around him in panic, missing the swish of his ponytail as he did so.

[Calm…be calm…friend.

To Mitsu's left, a wall suddenly disappeared and two men in white lab coats entered the room, accompanied by a levitating med droid. The smuggler backed away slowly and wished with all his might for his blaster.

"Hey, guys. How's it going? You taking me out of here, then?" Mitsu smiled disarmingly.

The two men were silent as they relentlessly stalked him, the med droid in their wake.

[Calm…be calm…

"Guys? Hey, guys? What say we go and get some drinks over at Sartre's, huh? On me. Whaddaya say, fellas? Drinks sound good to you? Sartre's a close personal friend of mine." Mitsu felt his back hit a wall and found himself cornered. The two men had still not made a sound.

The red light blinked back on.

"Do it." The voice commanded.

With a quickness and strength that Mitsu would never have expected from medics, the two men grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him to the bed. As he bucked and screamed, they proceeded to flip him on his stomach and, while one held him down with a pressure point in the small of his back, the other reached underneath the bed and activated magnetic straps that materialized on all four corners. Mitsu found his wrists and ankles effectively immobilized.

"You sons of bitches! Fuck you! Fuck you! Let me go! What the hell is this! What the hell are you gonna do to me?!"

[Fear! Why…fear? No more light. Only…fear. Why…?

Mitsu's chin was propped up and he saw the looming shadows of the two medics reflected on the plasticrene walls. He also spied the med droid hovering above him, a long appendage suddenly appearing out of its bulky form. Long appendage? This looked like no med droid he'd ever seen. Horror suffocated him as he watched the droid draw closer to his head.

"No! No! NOOOOOO!"

Twin screams of pain and fire scorched the Hub and every Empath within a thousand meters from the Academy keeled over from the force and fury of an Adept level Empath's uncontrollable spike.


End file.
